"But I've learned a lot of Greek and Latin, too," he added in a hurry, "and poetry and things like that."
"I fear," said the father, "thou dost not love thy book."
"I do, sir; yet I love my sports better," said Dickie, and looked up to meet the fond, proud look of eyes as blue as his own.
"Thou'rt a good, modest lad," said his father when they began their third round of the garden, "not once to ask for what I promised thee."
Dickie could not stand this. "I might have asked," he said presently, "but I have forgot what the promise was—the fever——"
"Ay, ay, poor lad! And of a high truth, too! Owned he had forgot! Come, jog that poor peaked remembrance."
Dickie could hardly believe the beautiful hope that whispered in his ear.
"I almost think I remember," he said. "Father—did you promise——?"
"I promised, if thou wast a good lad and biddable and constant at thy book and thy manly exercises, to give thee, so soon as thou should'st have learned to ride him——"
"A little horse?" said Dickie breathlessly; "oh, father, not a little horse?" It was good to hear one's father laugh that big, jolly laugh—to feel one's father's arm laid like that across one's shoulders.